


From the Depths of Hel

by ActualLynx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Fenris is a Good Girl, Gen, Good Hela, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, No Bashing, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, POV Third Person Limited, Reincarnated Harry Potter, Reincarnation, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27607217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualLynx/pseuds/ActualLynx
Summary: Odin was always more creative with his punishments than people gave him credit for, more imaginative than anybody ever thought. When his one-and-only daughter tried to escape from her prison, leaving a mountain of bodies in her wake, he attempted something altogether more drastic.Or, Hela Oddinsdottir reincarnates as Hela Potter, and the future changes irrevocably.
Relationships: It's a surprise
Comments: 18
Kudos: 129





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been banging around inside my head since the beginning of October, and after agonizing over it far too much, I've decided to start posting some chapters. I don't think anybody has ever done this type of story before, which honestly shocks me, so here goes nothing. I own neither Harry Potter or Marvel, and if you do so happen to have one of these IP's under your name, please don't sue me. Thank you!

A God walked amongst the stars.

Garbed in the most resplendent robes imaginable, he cast an overbearing shadow over the heavens. His footsteps echoed across history, for there was no world in all the Nine Realms that did not know his name. He breathed regality, for as a King and as a God, such things came naturally to him.

But there was a darker side to godhood, and as a being who’d seen aeons beyond counting come and go, his soul was more corrupt than most. Odin Borson held much on his mind, and it was such things best left forgotten that brought him to this nexus among worlds. Best left forgotten, best left out of even the annals of history, but Odin was never very good at ignoring the past.

It was his greatest strength, as well as his greatest curse. Ever vigilant, ever paranoid.

He came upon the termination of the Rainbow Bridge, a bridge which reached everywhere and nowhere. Home of the Bifrost, a device capable of channelling immense energies, giving Asgard access to everything that there was, and home also of Heimdall, its sacred guardian.

“My King,” Heimdall said without inflexion, his back turned to the ruler of Asgard. Dressed in thick and extravagant golden armour, and wielding a massive broadsword, the man was not surprised in the least of his King’s approach. He’d already known, for Heimdall could see and hear all.

It was with that talent well in mind that Odin had approached his most loyal subject. “Heimdall,” He said. “I greet you.” His words carried no warmth, for such mannerisms were the norm of mighty King’s. Regardless, if his tone were decidedly less stern or severe than was proper, Heimdall made no indication of noticing. “I’ve grown weary enough of courtly matters for one day. What do your eyes see? What new stories whisper themselves across the winds of the cosmos?”

Heimdall turned to face Odin, his face impassive, and his gaze distant and fleeting, never appearing to focus on any one thing for overlong. “I bring you no news, Allfather, for it was you that came to me, not I to you.”

“That you have time for such dry humour tells me much. The heavens must be silent, indeed.”

“Ahh, but the heavens may never be silent, so long as your progeny roam freely.”

Odin privately agreed. Thor, his eldest son, was always in some battle or brawl or another, while Loki, his youngest, was not the God of Mischief without cause, and was never seen unless he so wished to be. And then there was — _Her_. Odin’s firstborn, and his only daughter. His most immense pride, as well as his most extraordinary mistake.

Heimdall seemed hesitant for the first time. “Niflheim grows restless without its Queen,” He said, slowly. “The dead linger — they fail to sleep.”

Neither of the two said anything for several long moments, Odin taking the time to absorb the news, and Heimdall, content in his silent vigil. Finally, at last, his mind made up, and his course of action set, Odin said, “The Realm of the Dead has survived for millennia untold before her, they will endure a scant few decades more. They have little choice — she is not ready.”

Heimdall remained silent, prompting, as though sensing that the Allfather still possessed much on his mind.

“I sent her a gift,” Odin added, almost as an afterthought, his ageing mind lingering on foolish sentimentalities, and thoughts of impossible what-if’s. “She turns eleven, and soon. An auspicious milestone, for the Midgardians, and one worthy of an equally significant gift. Fenris will once more serve her well.”

Heimdall frowned, an almost imperceptible downward tick of his lips. “Though I know that she yet lives, I cannot sense her — the mortals have hidden her well.”

Odin wasn’t concerned. “That matters not. We needn’t fear, for Fenris will always find her mistress. Even as a pup, that will not change.”

“And yet her mistress is nought but a pup herself — she cannot rule Niflheim. What of those who cannot wait? What of those denied their final rest?”

“Of that, I can see no larger irony than to send Brunnhilde to govern in her stead,” Odin’s statement carried the weight of command, booming across the cosmos for all to hear. 

It took immeasurable strength to command the dead, and such power was not something Odin would ever lack. An electric charge swiftly built within the near-empty air, and an energy that few could behold seeped its way into the very fabric of the universe, like the roots of a tree burrowing through the earth. The cosmos shook, the barrier between life and death thinning until it was nearly insubstantial, and then it _snapped._

The Allfather hefted Gungnir, his mighty spear, the symbol of his power, and slammed the base of it against the ground. A wave of golden energy rang out, sounding out like a gavel, before dispersing, and Odin knew that wheresoever she might be, Brunnhilde would hear, and she would understand. The time for mourning was over.

Willingly, or more likely _not_ , the last of the Valkyrie would ride once more.


	2. Something Licked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Good Girl appears, and Hela is Very Lonely

“Sorry!” Hela called out as she pushed through somebody much more massive than herself. By the time the man could have responded, she was already long gone, her pockets just a little bit heavier than they were before.

She grinned as she turned a corner, the man’s bulky wallet burning a hole in her pocket.

She spent much of her free time pickpocketing her way through crowds nowadays, rather than spending it at home with her family. Though, calling her family anything other than blood relatives implied that they cared for her, which was decidedly not the case.

For years, for as long as she could remember, Hela’s Aunt and Uncle, with whom she had lived with ever since her parents had died in a car crash, had taken every opportunity to let her know of her freakishness.

It puzzled her, just a little, but she was no stranger to such things. Hela Potter, of Number Four, Privet Drive, knew very well that she was a freak, but she could never find it within herself to care. If that wasn’t freakish enough for any almost-eleven-year-old, then Hela didn’t know what was. She knew she was a freak, and that was the end of that.

Her Uncle Vernon was always the loudest of Hela’s detractors, the most adamant of her many critics. He’d huff and puff every day, placing the blame of his every problem and his every worry squarely on Hela’s shoulders. 

If there was anything in life that Hela could predict, it was Uncle Vernon, and she honestly preferred it that way. Predictability was safe — it could never shock her, and what could never surprise her could never hurt her.

She’d once heard of the legend of Atlas, of the Greek Titan who, quite literally, carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, and Hela felt like that, sometimes, whenever she was around her relatives. Uncle Vernon, though, was just fat — his efforts would never be enough to hold up the sky.

That didn’t matter, though, when he came home one day, fuming about a deal-gone-wrong at work — he sold industrial drills for a living — Uncle Vernon had taken one look at her, and Hela knew that not being seen was in her best interest.

She’d become quite good at not being seen, and even better at feeding herself.

It was silly — she was only ten, and so she _couldn’t_ be at fault for her Uncle’s misfortunes. Her Uncle would know that, undoubtedly, and yet that didn’t stop him from seeing Hela as a convenient outlet. Lucky for her, she was rarely ever home any more. Though the Dursleys’ were never physically abusive, they were never pleasant.

She hadn’t run away, though the thought had often crossed her mind. Hela still went to school, and she always made sure to go to her Aunt and Uncle’s house every single night, if only to have someplace warm to sleep and to do the chores her relatives demanded of her, lest they ask too many questions about her whereabouts. Out of sight, out of mind — that was her daily mantra.

Hela took great pleasure as she counted out her day’s haul. There was enough hard cash to fill her by-now-empty stomach thrice over, and judging by the gnawing feeling of needle-sharp spikes stabbing into her gut, it’d been far too long since Hela had last eaten.

If Hela wasn’t home, then her relatives never fed her, and if the adults in her life wouldn’t care for her, then she would make sure that others _did_. Maybe not by choice, but that was only a minor detail to Hela — a distinction that didn’t matter.

“ _Yes_ , my pretties,” Hela simpered as she looked over her array of ill-gotten wealth. “I shall barter away your _souls!_ For continued sustenance!” She did a somewhat unique pose, holding a single finger high in the air, before bowing to nobody with an exaggerated flourish.

Hela was indeed a bit odd, but then again, she never cared. She was hungry, and a hungry Hela was a cackling Hela, and nobody wanted to hear that. It was for the greater good that she stole, honestly, so that none would find their ears blemished by such an awful sound.

She cackled anyway, very quickly finding herself all alone on the sidewalk.

“Oh, _bother,_ ” She sighed dramatically, quoting one of her favourite characters on the telly. “I did it _again_. Bad Hela! What did I tell you about talking to yourself?”

An older man on the other side of the street looked at her oddly, but Hela paid him no mind. There was only one thing that interested her, and that was food, and so she continued her march towards the nearest store. Fast food wasn’t the healthiest grub she could be eating, but it was better than nothing, and even better yet, they never asked the seemingly-parentless child any questions.

An hour later, Hela was sat in a nearby park, happily chowing down on a rather large burger. She made some strange noises as she ate, her taste buds nearly overwhelmed by the exotic flavours dancing across her tongue. Hela closed her eyes, letting out a moan of contentment.

It was a dog’s high-pitched _whine_ that brought her out of her food-induced revelry, with only a few more bites left to take.

“What’s this?” She smiled, pausing in her eating. “A great beast doth nears!” Hela giggled at her use of the word _‘doth,’_ as she’d only just learned the phrase in class.

And the dog — more of a wolf, honestly — was indeed a great beast. It stood nearly as tall as Hela was while sitting, and while Hela would be the first to admit that she wasn’t the largest girl around, something told her that this particular dog still had plenty of time to grow. Its fur was a deep, dark grey, and its eyes were a vibrant and soulful shade of green. And, most intriguing of all, the oddest thing was that the dog carried a scroll of parchment in its mouth.

It was _adorable_ , and love at first sight, and her frozen soul melted into a puddle as the dog let out another pitiful whine. It flopped its entire head onto Hela’s thigh, staring up at her with begging eyes, as though Hela hadn’t already decided in her heart of hearts to keep the dog.

“Now let’s make a trade, you and me,” Hela said, speaking to the dog. “That scroll, for the last of my hamburger.” She held the last portion of her meal aloft and couldn’t help but snort as the dog’s eyes followed every tiny movement of her hand.

To her surprise, the dog listened, dropping the scroll into Hela’s lap and wasting no time in snatching its reward away from her. A gasp managed to squeeze its way out of her lips, in equal parts surprise and amusement.

“Good dog!” She let out, a light feeling in her chest. However, she eventually decided to pull her attention elsewhere, towards her newly-acquired lump of too-expensive-looking paper.

The most noticeable feature of the still-closed scroll was its wax seal, depicting either a raven or a crow — Hela could never remember the difference — sitting on a branch. She tore it open, not wanting to waste any more time, though she _did_ make sure to keep the wax intact. It was a pretty picture, and she was never one to waste pretty things. Hela unfurled it and began reading.

 _Hela,_ it read.

_My dearest hope is that this gift finds you in peace. Her name is Fenris. Treat her well, and she will serve you always._

She couldn’t, for several long minutes, even _comprehend_ the short letter. Nothing she read made any sense to her. Jumbled words banged around inside her head, refusing to process, because, for once in her short life, she felt vulnerable in a way that she’d never felt before. It scared Hela, on a level she could hardly fathom.

Slowly though, the chaotic letters started to make sense in her mind, clicking into place like they were a jigsaw puzzle. But, just like many a puzzle, it was missing its final piece, and Hela couldn’t help but think that she’d _forgotten something_.

 _A bottomless pit of_ rage _, the likes of which could shatter stars under its fury. Like a black tar, it smothered, took away the very air, stole from the world that which made it special._ _It didn’t feel stifling, or overbearing. Instead, it was_ freeing _, like the first sign of quenching rain in a desert, where before there was nothing but choking sand._

 _She only found herself wanting_ more.

_Screams rent through the air, the sounds of the dying. The song of despair, the choir of shame, the melody of the beaten — it all came together to forge something beautiful._

_Emerging from the mists of the wasteland was a man, eternal and unyielding. He raised his—_

Something wet and slimy dragged itself across Hela’s face, and the warm stench of what could only be the breath of a dog forced its way into her nostrils. 

Hela sputtered. “ _Ew!_ Yuck! Why’d you do that!?”

All recollections of the trance had already faded into the aether by the time Hela brought the full brunt of her glare down on top of the dog — Fenris, she supposed, only the dog wasn’t looking at Hela. Instead, she was focusing on the park around them, and Hela’s voice caught in her throat.

“Th-the _trees._ The _plants_. What happened? _How?_ ”

Spring was already in full swing, so most every plant had long since shaken off the last vestiges of winter. All the trees and all the bushes were green, and every flower blossomed with a limitlessly diverse range of colours. When Hela had sat down to eat, everything smelled like freshly mowed grass, and pollen was in the air. Only, between one minute and the next, it wasn’t like that anymore.

The trees had shed every leaf, and instead of covering the ground, they weren’t _there_ any longer. The grass had turned brown, and even from a distance, Hela could see that they were as dry as tinder. No more flowers bloomed, and no more birds sang, the branches that were sheltering them ageing and rotting before her shocked and horrified eyes.

It was all dead and gone. _Lifeless_.

More than anything, Hela couldn’t get over the feeling that all the death and decay was somehow _her fault_. Ice ran through her veins, and the newly-created silence was as merciless as it was accusatory.

“I-I can’t be here anymore,” Hela whispered, before taking off at a sprint.

Vaguely, a small part of Hela noted the passing of the terrain around her. The world flashed by in slow motion, as though Hela were some outside observer, looking in through a window into some other person’s more awful, more horrible life. When she blinked, she realised she was half right — all Hela could see in front of her was her reflection, staring back at her from within the window of a car.

She looked _terrible_.

Aunt Petunia had baulked at the cost of taking her to a hair salon, and so Hela’s hair was always, _always_ , cut at home. Her bangs were askew, and too long, revealing a jagged and angry looking, lightning-shaped scar on her forehead. Hela’s icy-blue eyes were shinier than usual, and she wondered, with a half-strangled giggle, if she were focusing on such details out of some form of hysteria.

She was finally going bonkers, wasn’t she? Not even eleven yet, and Hela was already losing it.

She doesn’t remember very much about the run itself, only that unshed tears had prickled behind her eyes, that the world had blurred and warped around her, and that the first place to feel safe to her was an alleyway behind Hela’s primary school. Her mad dash ended there.

She’d wedged herself into a nook — small and cramped, but secure. Still clutched in Hela’s hand was the little piece of parchment that’d set everything off, turned her whole world asunder. Crimped and folded, yes, but whole. It felt heavy in her palms, the word _gift_ burned into her mind, representing everything about her life that she preferred to ignore.

She threw it at the wall opposite her, using every ounce of muscle that she possessed. 

“ _Why!?_ ” She cried out into the empty air, before curling into a tight ball. “A gift… Why do you _care!?_ Where are you!?”

She erupted into broken sobs then, hiding her face in the crook of her elbows, and wanting nothing more than to disappear from this world. Nobody had ever given her a gift before, because nobody had ever cared. If somebody was giving her something as substantive as a _living animal_ , then it only left her with questions and no answers.

Where before she was yelling, this time it came out as something less than a whisper, so quiet that even Hela could hardly hear herself. “Where have you _been_ , if you care so much?” Though she wanted it more than anything, Hela refused to allow the tears to fall.

She knows this feeling all too well — that hole in her chest that she can never fill, the skin-deep ache that makes her whole being _crawl_ with dissatisfaction. She knows she should be happy, that Hela should be _ecstatic_ that somebody cared enough to look after her, even if only from a distance.

Knowing that doesn’t stop her heart from hurting.

Hela sat unnaturally still for a while, trying to force her mind away from everything, the scroll and the dog, and whatever it was that’d happened to the park. Occasionally, she’d break out into renewed sobs, sounds closer to a whimper than a cry, and whenever that happened, she hated herself just a bit. Hated herself for being so weak and vulnerable, hated herself for being so alone and unloved, and it was during yet another self-deprecating spiral that she finally registered something.

Fenris had followed her.

Their eyes met. Fenris sat on her hind legs, as still as a statue. Her long grey fur rustled in the wind, the only indication that the dog was indeed among the living. Her head cocked to the side, as though unsure how to approach Hela, or, perhaps, knowing she’d needed some space and was only waiting for just the right moment to walk over and comfort the girl.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised — a part of Hela had expected Fenris to disappear, to be just like every other, impermanent, figure in her life. That is, after all, if Fenris ever even existed in the first place. After the park, she wasn’t quite so sure of that anymore.

Feeling the absurd need for reassurance — not to be comforted, but to know that she wasn’t crazy — Hela held out her arms, an open invitation. Fenris wasted no time, sidling herself up into her grasp, Hela’s grip like iron as her hands clasped fistfuls of soft fur. Fenris felt reliable and warm and comforting in all the ways that mattered.

“You’re _real_ ,” Hela gasped out.

Fenris whined softly into her ear, and Hela got the impression that the dog was far smarter than she had any right to be. Suddenly feeling foolish, Hela decided that it didn’t matter who sent Fenris, or why. Only that they _did._ Adults were unreliable, and none seemed to want to love her, but Hela could get behind maybe sharing her life with Fenris.

“Don’t you worry one bit, girl,” Hela said, as though it were _Fenris_ that needed the consolation. “I’ll take care of you! Me and you? Together? Fenris, we’ll take on the _world_.”

Fenris licked Hela’s nose, much to her consternation. But, strangely enough for the girl, she found that she didn’t much _care_.

From that point on, they were inseparable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! If you're enjoying this so far, and since my update schedule has always been rather sporadic, I'd recommend leaving a bookmark to save your place. It always warms my withered old heart to see people comment, so I'll try my best to give everybody a good response. See you all next time!


	3. The Great Moss-Beard

Months passed, as they so often did, but her home of Privet Drive changed not one bit. Every house and tree and blade of grass stayed much the same, and the only way to keep track of the coming and going of time was by the coming and going of entire families. Some left, and some stayed — such was the way of things.

If she were honest, it was rather dull.

She reached a hand up, grabbing onto a raised knot in the wood. She sucked in a breath, steadying herself against the sway of the tree in the wind before she pulled herself up one more level, finally nearing the top.

The sunset was beautiful as always, and Hela couldn’t bear to take her eyes away from the view. A light gust of wind rustled through the branches, and oranges and pinks battled with the last vestiges of blue. Under the dying gasps of daylight, the clouds nearly glowed with an inner light.

From up on high, she could forget about dreary old Privet Drive, even if only for a little while.

Hela had an earbud in one ear, a pilfered phone blasting music louder than was, perhaps, safe, and with Fenris settled in the lengthening shade beneath her, she felt content. Climbing trees was a favourite pastime of Hela’s, and so was listening to music, and doing both while so high up would never get old.

The phone was a cheap model, but name-brand, with an uppercase ‘ _S’_ embellished upon its rear. The service had long since stopped working, so Hela had had only sporadic internet coverage in her summertime wanderings. The last owner held a fondness for heavy metal, one Hela now shared, and the banging and screaming in her ear felt at odds with the peaceful and tranquil world around her.

It didn’t fit, almost like a metaphor for Hela’s place in the universe.

Fenris’ sudden growl — a deep, rumbling noise that could rattle bones — alerted Hela to the unexpected visitor. Only a moment later, a man’s voice said her name. “Hela?”

She huffed, quite annoyed with the interruption, and promptly ignored the man — whoever he was, he sounded old.

“May we speak, my dear?” This time, she glanced down, spotting the old man in all his robe-wearing glory. 

Honestly, it should have set off every alarm bell in her mind, but the garish orange dress-thing made it difficult for Hela to take him seriously. To further the point, a fountain of silver glitter erupted from his shoulders, drifting to the ground like snowflakes, and Hela wrinkled her nose in faint disgust.

Nonetheless, she realised quite abruptly that he knew her name, and so he had her attention.

“Who’re you?” She called down from her place in the tree.

“Ah, of course, but I have not introduced myself.” He said, and Hela just stared at him. “I do apologise, approaching you when you have not even the faintest idea of who I am, why, you must be terribly perplexed. My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore, and I —”

Hela had heard enough — the man had talked too long and said too little. “Fenris,” She said, trusting that her faithful companion would know what to do to scare the man off.

A hundred pounds of wiry muscle propelled itself towards the perceived threat, eager to do Hela’s bidding. This late at night, she blended in with the shadows, making even Hela’s eyes slide off her indistinct form. Dumbledore, somehow appearing untroubled at the prospect of facing off with a dog of Fenris’ sheer size, merely reached into the folds of his sleeves and pulled out a long stick.

He flicked it upwards, and Fenris stopped cold in her tracks, seemingly paralysed.

“Oh, but it has been far too long since a student has set a dog upon me,” Dumbledore said, somehow making himself heard even through Fenris’ growls. “You flatter an old man with your decisiveness, Hela. Truly, you do.”

If Hela hadn’t already seen the unimaginable with her own two eyes, and Fenris stopped for no one, she wouldn’t have believed it. The dog was as inevitable as an avalanche, as swift as the wind, and so it was _impossible._ If Hela hadn’t done the impossible before herself, she’d already have been running away. Instead, it only piqued her curiosity.

She screwed her eyes shut, imagining the warm comfort only Fenris could offer her, and between one moment and the next, Hela was no longer in her tree. She stood now next to Fenris, leaning down to investigate whatever strange force had caused her to freeze in place.

Hela poked her, finding absolutely nothing of note, and it was only by the raising of Fenris’ hackles and the muffled timbre of her growl that she knew that the dog was still well aware of the goings-on, and she certainly wasn’t happy about her situation.

“What’d you do to her?” Hela asked angrily, her lips pursed as she kept her unflinching focus directed squarely on Dumbledore. “She can’t move. Can you undo it? It’s almost like —”

“Like magic, my dear?” Dumbledore said, not even blinking at Hela’s casual display of teleportation. He stroked one hand over the length of his beard, which Hela only now noticed reached down to his belt buckle. “I frequently find that a practical demonstration often forestalls any outcries of doubt or disbelief. Though I see now that such a showy display was perhaps unnecessary.”

Hela considered this. She remembered how the man had managed it — how he had stopped the unstoppable beast — and she teleported once more. She reappeared at Dumbledore’s side, plucking his stick-thing from his grasp, holding it up at eye-level as though every single one of its various grooves and divots held all the secrets of the universe. Though it did, for all that she knew. After all, it was _magic._

“It’s not a stick — it’s a wand!” Hela’s eyes widened, now starting to consider the implications. “ _Whoa._ ”

“Whoa, indeed,” Dumbledore said, looking down on Hela from over the top of his crescent-moon glasses with twinkling eyes. “Go ahead and give it a wave, Hela.”

Head finally catching up to her impulsive actions, Hela shook her head vigorously. “There’s no way that’s _magic._ I mean, _honestly!_ Magic?”

“Then how is it, may I ask, that you can explain away such a magical phenomenon as Apparition?” Dumbledore asked with a supremely logical tone of voice, and at Hela’s blank look, he clarified, “Appearing from one place to another, with no in-between.”

“Oh! You mean the teleportation. Well, lots of people can do lots of things like that,” Hela shrugged, dismissive, though her mind briefly flashed to that day at the park. “Aunt Petunia talks about it all the time, whenever it’s on the news, and Uncle Vernon’s always complaining, too.” She leaned forward to whisper, as though she were imparting the world’s greatest secret, “His face gets all purple-like — it’s _super_ silly.”

“Hmm,” Dumbledore said, clasping both hands together. “You raise a faultlessly reasonable case, but, I believe, your assertion falls short in just one way.”

“Yeah?” Hela asked, raising her chin proudly despite the potential prospect of a losing argument. She liked being right, after all, and while the possibility of magic being real was intriguing beyond measure, it was simply ludicrous. “How’s that?”

“If it is not magic, as you say, but something else altogether, then how is that I, too, can accomplish much the same as you?” Dumbledore abruptly disappeared, vanishing without a trace, and Hela nearly fell over in her sheer surprise. 

She found him only by clear chance, as he was not hiding, per se, but standing where he was least expected — in the tree that Hela had only recently vacated.

“If you are so sure in your convictions — that magic is not, in fact, real,” Dumbledore leaned against the trunk of the tree, relaxing as though he was quite comfortable being located ten feet off the ground, with only a thin branch between him and a broken leg. Even from her place in the dirt and mud, Hela could see his smug smile. “Then what have you to lose by waving that wand?”

Hela nibbled on her lip, her brows wrinkling as she considered the dilemma before her. She glanced towards Fenris for guidance, but it didn’t help — her best friend was still entirely stationary. A stray lock of hair flitted into her vision, and she huffed, blowing it aside. Hela raced through the possibilities in her head, but in the end, she still couldn’t make up her mind.

“To wave or not to wave?” She asked herself out loud. Hela tilted her head from side to side, weighing her choices. “I mean, Moss-Beard over there has a point. If I’m right and magic doesn’t exist, then I’m just waving around a stick. Right, Fenris?”

The dog didn’t say anything, obviously, but Hela knew that she could understand her. Fenris only huffed out a long breath, clearly a sigh, and rolled her green eyes, imploring Hela to get on with it.

“Impatient brat,” Hela smiled fondly at Fenris, and her words carried none of the weight of an insult. “ _Fine._ But it’s your fault if we die.”

She raised the wand and gave it a little spin, but nothing happened. There were no sparks, no pretty lights or sounds, no sign at all that resembled something magical in even the slightest had occurred, but when Hela shifted her weight from one foot to the other, she certainly felt something off. Her foot sank far too far into the grass.

Fenris’ tongue lolled out of her mouth, now somehow unfrozen, and she chose that moment to pounce.

Hela _slammed_ into the ground, but rather than a jarring impact and a sudden stop, the Earth itself seemed to have _rejected_ her presence, summarily flinging her away. If it were not for Fenris still clinging to her, Hela might have managed to stand again. Instead, all her efforts only entangled Hela further and further into the clutches of her mischievous and conniving canine, and they continued to bounce around until suddenly they weren’t.

“You great big lout! Get off me!” Despite herself, she couldn’t help but giggle as she shoved Fenris off of her.

Hela stood up on shaking legs, her stance unsteady as the ground threatened to swallow her whole. It didn’t though, only giving in so much before, almost as though it were a spring loaded up with tension, it would bounce back. It seemed to Hela, now that she had the presence of mind to think about it, almost like it was a _trampoline_ , made out of simple grass. It didn’t seem possible or even logical — maybe there _was_ something to this whole magic thing.

Experimentally, tentatively, she jumped.

The ground gave way readily, and she soon found herself hopping in place, a hesitant smile growing on her face. Hela was an orphan, and her guardians were unkind — she’d never even _been_ on a trampoline before. Did grass count? Did it even matter when the result was still the same? She didn’t think so.

Up and down she went, higher and higher each time, but unfortunately, the effect could never last. With her head in the clouds, the only thing left was to come back down to Earth, and her knees bent only slightly as they took the brunt of the landing. The ground was once more utterly unyielding.

“Enjoy yourself, I hope?” Dumbledore asked, now back in front of her, somehow, without her noticing.

She could never count on a man she couldn’t keep track of, and she eyed him warily — Hela had never trusted much of anyone or anything, save only for Fenris. “I guess I did,” She hedged, edging closer towards her faithful hound. 

Trust was a commodity hard-earned with Hela — she would never give it away to just anybody. She’d raised herself, practically speaking, because her Aunt and Uncle couldn’t be bothered to do it themselves. She’d had to grow up fast, and while it left her perhaps a little eccentric, her hard-won instincts had never failed her.

She gave the man another once over, taking him apart in her mind, bit by bit and block by block. His clothes — bizarre and loud. His demeanour — relaxed and unyielding. Even his beard — long and grey and mossy. Everything about him screamed sincerity, and honestly, it was Dumbledore’s orange and glittery robe that sealed the deal for Hela.

It was odd, and that was just the way she liked things.

Her fingers lingered on the wand’s handle as she walked over and gave it back to the aged man, her instincts telling her to pocket the strange stick. Nevertheless, she let it go. 

A flicker of excitement grew in her stomach, stoked to life by the thought that _magic_ was real. Maybe there were others like her? Dumbledore had mentioned that he was a professor, now that Hela thought about it, and a professor was there to _teach._ There were so many _possibilities._

She giggled — a low and grating sound that would give those few smarter souls the shivers.

“I have a letter for you in my possession — for your eyes only.” Dumbledore winked at her, reaching into the pockets of his oversized robe and pulling out a parchment with an exaggerated flourish, before handing it over to her like it was the world’s most precious cargo. 

She took it, albeit hesitantly. It reminded her much of the letter that came with Fenris, with few differences. The parchment was darker, for one, and for another, a coat of arms impressed itself into the wax seal. She read the address written in green ink, and all her excitement dissipated like so many drops of rain in an ocean.

_Ms H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

“The very first thing that you must understand,” Dumbledore said. “Is that I am a headmaster of a very particular school of magic — Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to be exact — where you may attend, if you so choose, for ten months out of the year. I am an educator at my core, a teacher, and with so few students accepted every year, I make it a point of pride of mine to look the letters over. I saw your name, yes, but more importantly, I saw where you live. A _Cupboard_ is not the usual place to find a child, so—”

“You came to look,” Hela said, softly.

“...Yes. That I have,” Dumbledore said after a pregnant pause, sounding somehow decades older. “Your Aunt and your Uncle were not happy — if you will forgive my understatement — when I came to find you. I saw your accommodations with my own eyes, and I listened to every word your relatives had to say. I found myself distinctly unimpressed.”

Hela couldn’t help but snort, but moreover, she wasn’t entirely sure how to react. She hadn’t opened the letter yet, not entirely, she couldn’t bring herself to — the deep green ink of her address had still to let go of her captured attention.

Her nights were cold and dark and lonely in that cupboard under the stairs, her only companion being a dusty old spider in a dusty old corner, as she hadn’t told her relatives of Fenris. For fear of what they would do to her, she’d uttered not a word. There were things they would never do to a child, let alone a girl, but when it came to an oversized puppy, those few simple reservations would vanish. She shuddered at the vile thought.

Hela wasn’t _stupid._ She knew very well that her relatives were in the wrong to treat her as they did — that abuse, no matter how minor, was never justifiable. But she stopped caring long ago how they treated her because that was simply the way that things _were._ To try and change things was useless — she’d learned that lesson the hard way.

She didn’t even bother to brace herself for that all-too-familiar burn of disappointment. There wasn’t any point.

“I would correct an old mistake,” Dumbledore said, reaching out to Hela as though to take her hand, but stopping halfway there. “If you would allow it, I will take you far away from dreadful old Privet Drive.”

Perhaps it was from some alien emotion she didn’t have the words for, but more likely it was just the sheer shock of the moment. When her hand reached out to the professor’s as though out of its own accord, she did nothing to stop it — she merely shrugged inwardly.

What did she have to lose?

Dumbledore’s eyes glowed with thinly-veiled amusement when Fenris added her paw to the mix, placing it on top of Hela’s. She barked and, with a twist and a spin, the three of them vanished as though they were never there.

* * *

“Ah, Nymphadora, my dear!” Dumbledore exclaimed soon after arriving at their destination. They’d appeared at the door of a somewhat upscale home — the front door was solid oak — and the professor had promptly pressed the doorbell. “Are your parents home, by chance?”

“Don’t call me that!” The boy who’d answered glared at Dumbledore with the fury of a thousand stars, his hair shifting in colour from neon green to a bright red, and Hela couldn’t help but wonder how that worked. “My name’s _Tonks_ , and _no_ , they aren’t here yet. They’re still at work, so _I’m_ the bugger who’s stuck packing.”

“Language,” Dumbledore chided, though the lack of any heat to his tone undercut his rebuke. He withdrew one of those old-fashioned pocket watches out of his robes, glancing at the time. “I shan’t stay overlong — I came only to make introductions.”

Dumbledore rocked lightly on his feet after repocketing his device, shifting his weight backwards and forward and staring blankly at the wall as though he saw something in the bricks that nobody else could see. He said nothing, not bothering to give the introductions he’d only just promised.

“Oh, would you look at the time!” Dumbledore exclaimed quite abruptly — seconds _after_ he’d already put away his watch — and before anyone could stop him, he disappeared, Apparating away with a _crack._

Nymphadora — or maybe it was Tonks — shifted his attention away from the place the barmy old man had only just abandoned, apparently unruffled by the odd behaviour. Hela couldn’t blame him, remembering how utterly unfazed Dumbledore was when Fenris had charged him with all the might of a living freight train. The man wasn’t quite _there_ , and he made no secret out of that fact _._

His eyes held no recognition as he looked Hela up and down, that is until Tonks’ gaze reached the jagged scar on her forehead. His eyes bulged suddenly, quite literally doubling in size, whatever strange ability that’d caused his hair to change colour extending to the rest of his body.

Hela’s only thought was that it made him look like a cartoon character.

“Hiya!” Tonks said after a long moment, extending out his left hand — not his right, as was proper — to shake. “My name’s Tonks, and you must be my new sister!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there ends our Prologue, the bit before Hogwarts. The next chapter will start at the beginning of Third Year, where I have an original plotline all figured out. Anything that contradicts canon has been done on purpose, so if you have any questions about what any of it might mean, feel free to PM me. I’ll be more than happy to answer them.
> 
> Romance, like in canon, will not be the main focus of this story, though I do plan on a femslash endgame. Hela may have crushes, some of which she may act upon, though in the end, there can be only one.
> 
> There will be no bashing, no magical cores, no Lordship/Ladyship politics or overly friendly goblins. Some people like these, and while I’m not one of them, I don’t see them as being inherently wrong, so long as they’re done right. They merely won’t be featuring in this story.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment/kudos! It really does help out, I swear it does!


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